


sorry, baby

by 2000sblossom



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Mentions of Sex, Post-Season/Series 02, Villanelle Is Lowkey Whipped, basically what happens between the end of season 2 and the beginning of season 3, other characters appear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:28:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23974513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2000sblossom/pseuds/2000sblossom
Summary: Villanelle leaves Eve in Rome.But killing Eve never really leaves her.(Basically what happens between the end of season 2 and the beginning of season 3.)
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	sorry, baby

**Author's Note:**

> put a finger down if u go on hiatus for a solid three years and only return to the archive to simp over a psychopathic serial killer *puts a finger down*
> 
> TL;DR: Villanelle is whipped for Eve, even after "killing" her. She sees Eve wherever she goes.

Villanelle leaves Eve in Rome. 

More specifically, she leaves Eve’s _body_ in Rome. 

And everything kind of comes full circle. One of the first things Villanelle was taught (courtesy of the Twelve, of course), is to ensure that the dead doesn’t rise again - that the body remains, just that. She was taught: at any twitch of the hand or rise and fall of the chest -- to reach for her weapon once more.

But of course, Villanelle has to remind herself that Eve isn’t just a victim. She’s not a goddamn hit. She is new territory.

  
And for reasons unknown -- or perhaps, reasons known and haphazardly brushed aside -- Villanelle neglects to check the body. Pressing the cold steel of her gun to Eve’s flesh and clicking the trigger feels more than enough of a guarantee for Villanelle.   
The sheer blast and force of the shot is deafening; the deep smell of gunpowder almost akin to church bells. All of it, all of it, rips the breath right from Villanelle’s chest.  
She doesn’t even see Eve’s body hit the floor.

Eve’s death is like her: clean, quiet, efficient. A concerning lack of blood or noise. Villanelle finds the whole situation oddly apropos. Amongst other things..

Leaving Eve in Rome leaves Villanelle with a mountain of emotions she cannot even begin to address.

In fact, it wouldn’t be a step too far to say that killing eve has rendered Villanelle reborn. For better, or for worse.

Killing Eve has _changed_ Villanelle.

* * *

Despite Bill’s incessant complaint from beyond the grave, morphine has taken the place of Eve’s best friend.

She hates this; the sterile, medical edge of a hospital room - the way in which the white lights stir around inside her brain. Most of all, she despises hospital food. And the thick, burnt crust of her breakfast toastie has only further cemented this hatred.

She feels entirely pathetic; lethargic, unceremoniously dirty and unkempt. And when Carolyn Martens glides onto the ward like some kind of aloof fairy godmother, flashing her MI6 badge at the nurse without so much as a word, Eve feels especially stupid.

Carolyn pulls a cheap, silver chair underneath her. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing you in a hospital bed, Eve.”

Eve shoots her this look, a silent and pleading ‘Please just don’t, I’m too damn tired for this.’ Instead of a coy, witty reply that would be oh so typical of past Eve Polastri - this version of Eve remains tight-lipped, picking absent-mindedly at her breakfast-stroke-early-lunch dish. Carolyn raises an eyebrow at this display.

“Cheese toastie not taking your fancy?”

Eve sneers; chucks her breakfast onto the table in front of her. She glances at her hands, winces at the dirt beneath her nails. “Go crazy. Hospital food makes me feel sick.”

“Completely understandable considering the circumstances,” Carolyn offers sympathetically, and Eve has never seen her so casual, so human, so normal. Perhaps it’s a common courtesy for these kinds of thins - Eve wouldn’t know.

She has to ask: “Where,” Eve questions, voice toeing the line between silence and a whisper. She doesn’t look up; instead, pretends to clean her nails, “--Is she?”

There’s an awkward squeak as Carolyn shuffles her chair forward - fruitlessly striving for some sense of confidentality. The woman one bed over shoots the two a glare for interrupting her nap.

“Do you want the good news or the bad?” Carolyn asks with a sigh, picking up the breakfast wrap.

“Some good news would be an absolute delight right now,” Eve says sarcastically, finally lifting her head. Carolyn looks worried, which in turn, worries Eve.

“The good news,” Carolyn says slowly, “Is that she thinks that you are dead.”

She wouldn’t be that far from the truth, Eve thinks to herself. Eve considers the deliberate choice of Carolyn’s words: how the two of them telepathically refuse to say her name. _Oksana Astankova. Codename: Villanelle._

The name sticks to the inside of Eve’s mind like chewing gum.

“The bad news--” Carolyn continues, pulling a newspaper from the inside of her coat, slapping it onto the table with one hand and chewing into the breakfast toastie with the other, “Is that the Twelve hasn’t allowed her a break.”

Eve squints at the black and white headline. Her eyes burn at the front page photo of some distant, Russian politician. She knows that it’s Villanelle before even reading the article properly.

Her gunshot wound throbs immediately. Eve sweats.

An uncomfortable silence swims over the two women as Eve digests the news, glaring at the newpaper like it’s a ticking time bomb, rather than actually picking it and reading it.

“Eugh,” Carolyn offers between bites, and Eve doesn’t know if she is being deliberately obtuse, or is simply trying (and failing) to lift the mood.

The toastie is fed to the trash-can without a second thought as Carolyn dabs the side of her mouth with a napkin. “No wonder patients check themselves out of hospital so damn quickly. That was an _abomination_.”

Eve excuses herself to the bathroom - uttering out a half-assed excuse as she damn near jumps from the hospital bed. 

She blames Villanelle for her upset stomach and makes a, perhaps, offhand and unintentionally humorous mental note to send her an invoice. 

* * *

  
Villanelle sees Eve wherever she goes.

At first, it’s a rare occurrence. One night, at 2 a.m., she feels a strong craving for sugar-ring doughnuts and makes a stop down at the local 24-hour supermarket. Whilst she’s browsing the shelves of the cake aisle for the perfect brand of doughnuts (‘Seriously though, why the hell are doughnuts stored next to birthday cake?’), she catches something out of the corner of her eyes. Thick, coily black hair. Deep, hazelnut brown eyes.

The surge of electricity that attacks Villanelle’s gut almost has her reeling. The simple process of entering a store, paying for a packet of doughnuts and then quietly leaving becomes but a distant thought. Something instinctive and animalistic within her demands that she investigate further - a metaphorical red target being placed on the back of her prey’s raincoat.  
She waits; watches, from the other side of the aisle - pretends to read the back of random products whilst still side-eyeing the woman. Of course it’s not Eve - it can’t be. Villanelle shot and killed Eve not even two weeks ago in Rome. 

_She’s dead._

But you forgot to double tap, _Котик_ \- a smug voice reminds her.

The woman pays for her groceries silently, leaves the store and disappears into a crowd outside the supermarket. Villanelle stares after her, only knocked out of her trance when the cashier begins to ring her up.

Needless to say, Villanelle leaves the supermarket without any sugar ring doughnuts. 

* * *

Eve is having an utterly shit week. After being patched up in Rome and being flown back to the UK, the severity of the entire situation begins to weigh heavily on Eve's conscience. Her marriage is, undeniably, in tatters - Niko leaving a hastily written note about needing some time apart; alluding to the beginning of the end. It's only a couple weeks later, when the divorce documents are mailed through the letterbox; that Eve begins to really understand.

She wants so desperately to blame Villanelle. For destroying her mind, her body, her family, her career. Whilst brushing her teeth and prepping for bed, Eve gets to thinking. A quiet room and a head full of thoughts turns out to be a ghastly combination; she figures.

She fucking despises Villanelle. Fantasises about being able to overpower her, wrap her fingers around Villanelle's neck and squeeze until her lungs grip to the edge of life. In the five minutes between preparing for bed and actually clambering under the sheets, Eve has imagined nearly two dozen scenarios in which she could kill Villanelle.

As implausible as they may be.

In the darkness of her bedroom (her and Niko's bedroom, their bed), Eve boils with fury. With a sense of deep, deep frustration. Whilst rolling to Niko's side of the bed, her elbow grazes the pink, puckered scar upon her torso; illicts a slow hiss from Eve's throat. 

After a moment, her mind dares her to touch it once more. For once, Eve complies - pressing the soft pads of her fingertips to the developing scar. 

The pain is oddly satisfying.

"You," she whispers, into the blackness of her bedroom. She wishes Villanelle could hear the spite in her voice.

"You did this," she spits, pressing down into the wound until it burns, "You ruined me."

Afterwards, before she succumbs to sleep, Eve wonders if Villanelle thinks about Rome, too. 

* * *

Villanelle kind of likes to be off-grid. No cell-phones (except burner phones - which Konstantin had insisted upon); nothing that can be traced back to one, Villanelle. However, the internet can certainly have it's uses. Especially when trying to get over someone.

The woman before her is a good likeness - less soft than Eve; more angular and a little rugged. But her hair. Damn, that hair. When Villanelle finally gets the woman onto the couch, straddling her lap, she grabs a handful of her hair and presses her nose into the mass.

"You have such a thing about my hair," the woman offers, chuckling nervously when Villanelle doesn't pull away, "You look hungry."

And God, is Villanelle hungry. Eve's death has her wanton and desperate to be fed even a morsel of something that resembles her. Eve has always rendered her weak - hence why she'd bent to the advantages of an internet connection and local, curious women. 

Eventually, Villanelle pulls back, eyes dangerously alert and glassed over. She frowns for a second: _Eve uses argon oil of Morocco, not this cheap bullshit._ But it's okay, she can work with this.

"You remind me of someone," she says simply, humming as she twirls a black hair around her finger. The woman lifts an eyebrow; begins to shuck off her cardigan. _Eve would never wear that._

"Someone good, I hope?" she replies, leaning forward to mouth at Villanelle's shoulder, "An ex-lover? A celebrity? I can be anybody you want."

Villanelle wish that were true, she really does. Eve's death has been looming over her like a darkened rain-cloud - and it's a strange feeling. New, uncomfortable; it sticks to the inside of Villanelle's chest like hot glue. But she must allow herself this, she must get Eve out of her system so she can continue her duties.

Even just for now.

"Here," Villanelle says suddenly - unhooks her legs from around the woman's lap and yanks open the kitchen drawer. Not-Eve watches her with a careful eye, looking bashful but curious. Her face falls when Villanelle returns with a kitchen knife; straddles the woman once more.

The knife is put in the woman's hand, and Villanelle leans forward until she finds the right place - feels the tip of the blade pressing beautifully against her scar. Her eyes are saucers now, entirely parched.

"This is a little weird," the woman says, eyes searching for an out, "Not really what I meant."

"You're my ex-lover," Villanelle corrects, pressing herself down until the skin breaks. She hisses, "I hurt her greatly."

Not-Eve storms out of the apartment, still buttoning up her cardigan. She mumbles something about this being _a waste of time_ and fucking weird. Villanelle watches from her window, the kitchen knife still sitting on the coach where she had left it.

A trickle of blood seeps into her sock. She turns to the coach, allowing the blade to mock her.

She sighs, "Did you think about me the way I think about you?"

* * *

Eve's new apartment leaves a lot to be desired.

It's cramped, somewhat bohemian - cardboard boxes stacked around the space with little or no care. For two weeks, she eats from paper plates and plastic cutlery - she doesn't want to acknowledge this apartment, this life; as being her new reality.

A month in, she finally digs into one of the boxes for a proper plate. 

After picking at her lasagne for a solid five minutes, eyebrows narrowed and heart oddly hollow - Eve finally gives in. 

She covers her face with her hands and sobs silently.

**Author's Note:**

> Котик (pronounced 'KO-tik') - a Russian term of endearment 
> 
> hello yes ur kudos & comments supply me with my lifeforce uwu 
> 
> come yell at me on my [ tumblr](https://oksanasexual.tumblr.com/)


End file.
